


School's Out

by Britpacker



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Issues, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ella Murray’s in trouble again; this time at her independent school. Is there anything beyond the remit of the Director of Communications?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Posting the prologue tonight to encourage me to crack on with the main body of the fic. It's Malcolm/Sam in the later stages, but there's quite a lot of Murray domestic drama as well!

“James, just for once can you not pull your fucking finger out and just _deal_ with something?” She knew her office door was ajar, but it probably wouldn’t have made a difference if she'd locked it before taking the call, not with her voice rising high enough to shatter the plate glass panels. Ollie Reeder grimaced, making a performance of ducking behind the stack of folders lined up behind his monitor. Opposite, Glenn Cullen rolled his eyes and reached wearily for his desk phone. Another ministerial domestic was the last thing anybody needed, especially in the wake of Fatty’s frankly laughable extra-maritals being splashed all over the weekend’s rags.

“You realise what this is going to mean, James?” On the verge of tears, Nicola Murray unwittingly authorised the action her senior advisor was about to take. “We’re going to be all over the fucking papers _again_. She’s humiliating us _and_ the Government! I could lose my job because she chooses to prance about snatching older girls’ lunch money and thinks that “My mum’s a Cabinet Minister, what are you going to do about it?” is an acceptable answer when the Head pulls her in!”

“Worked with the last one,” Ollie muttered. Glenn scowled.

“Yes, and look how that turned out,” he hissed back. “Malcolm, good morning. Just thought you might appreciate some advance warning….”

*

To his surprise, she didn’t erupt or burst into tears again. “Yes, well it saves me the humiliation of having to explain why my fucking daughter’s about to be excluded from the second school in a year,” she said, scrubbing at her reddened eyes and getting makeup all over her hands. “How – how did he take it?”

Having heard the initial muffled explosion of profanity from the far side of the office, Ollie pulled a face. Glenn cleared his throat. Fiddled with the chain of his glasses. “Oh, quite well. Considering.”

“What, considering that a respected professional’s reputation was ruined by the mere suggestion of giving Ella _preferential treatment_ last time? Or considering the screams of righteous indignation from the press when we dared to move her to a highly regarded independent fucking school in the hope of avoiding it happening again?”

“Yeah, that went well.” 

“Oh, fuck off, Ollie!”

Glenn chose to ignore their bickering. “He wants you to go over there.”

Her face fell. “What, now?”

“I've put the car on standby.”

“Shit.”

There was no heat in the word. For the first time her advisors saw Nicola Murray hang her head like her predecessor had on a regular basis, a woman defeated. “He’ll be more help than my fucking husband at least,” she muttered, not even ducking back to grab her bag or good shoes before she slunk away, head down, toward the stairs.


	2. The Lion's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicola needs his help. That means braving his wrath. Sometimes, it's actually worthwhile.

Everybody knew. The policeman on the doorstep smiled at her and she saw sympathy. The permanent official in the lobby did no more than say “Good morning, Minister”, but something in her voice screamed _"what a useless excuse for a fucking parent”._

They couldn’t know.

Yet in her guilt and rage, Nicola could have sworn they did.

“Go straight through please, Minister. He’s expecting you.”

Sam. Well, in all probability she did know. Even if she was too kind to show it.

“Malcolm.” 

“Morning, Mrs Walton.” He half-rose, jabbing a bony index finger toward the chair facing his. “So; how’s Chelsea fucking Clinton doing? Have you told her she’s about to lose you your fucking job yet?”

What little colour the fresh breeze outside had returned to her face drained away. “I know you weren’t happy about her moving to an independent school, Malcolm, but that’s uncalled for.”

Little though he liked to admit it, Nicola Murray had more spunk in her system than the entire male Cabinet contingent combined. “Yeah? Well maybe you should’ve told her royal highness before she moved that Cabinet Ministers can resign. Or be sacked. It’s not like you’re the Queen of fucking Sheba, right? She might think she’s untouchable but you’re not, OK? Hey, maybe it’d be a good idea for you to spend a bit more time with your family. Fuckin’ Mumsnet’d like that, givin’ up your high-powered fucking career to straighten out your spoiled wee bullying BRAT!”

“I’m not the one who’s been doing the bullying, Malcolm!”

“No, you’re the one who guilt-tripped this government into letting your little princess go to a school ninety nine per cent of your constituents couldn’t fucking afford after she threw her puny weight around too much at the comp. You’re the one who didn’t want to see a good man lose his job, right up until the moment it took the fucking heat off you. And don’t give me that bullshit about _protecting Ella_ ; what you’re really worried about, Mother fucking Hubbard, is the field day the hacks are gonna have when they find out you can’t run a fucking family, still less a government department!”

“I’ve got to speak to Mister Morris: her headmaster.” Arguing would only make him worse, and whether she liked it or not Nicola Murray was in no position to alienate her most likely source of salvation. “I don’t know what to say to him, Malcolm!”

“Sorry?” he suggested, derision twisting through his gravelly tone. “I’m takin’ the bitch off to fuckin’ Borstal where she belongs? It’ll all calm down when Mummy’s hiding on the backbenches under a brown paper fucking bag?”

“Stop fucking threatening me! Do you think I care about my fucking career when my daughter’s whole _life_ is being ruined?”

“Yes, I think you fucking care. If you didn’t, you’d have already resigned and you’d be up at that school begging that hoity-toity fuckin’ private sector PRICK to give Ella another chance.” Her small sob into her hands stopped him and on a gusty sigh Malcolm thrust his own handkerchief – crisp white cotton, she was inconsequentially aware she should offer to launder it for him after - across the desk. “Look. Nobody wants to see a kid humiliated in the national press, right? And since we’re still dealing with the Fatty fallout, the last thing this government wants is another fucking dysfunctional ministerial family! Fancy Tart Towers or whatever it’s called isn’t gonna want the bad press for expelling a minister’s daughter; or to lose that fat fuckin’ fee you pay. I reckon there’s a deal to be done here, OK?”

Red-rimmed eyes peeked over the hem of his hankie. “She threatened to turn a prefect’s teeth into a fucking necklace, Malcolm.”

“Yeah, but that just words, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve threatened to pull Ollie’s spine out through his arsehole in the past but I’ve never actually _done_ it, have I?.”

“You’d struggle to find it. Or his bollocks.”

She could have sworn he shuddered. “Nic’la, there are some things I’d not go near with a ten foot fucking pole and that mincin’ ladyboy’s cotton wool balls are top of the list. Want me to talk to Morris for you?”

Shock at the offer triggered total honesty. “Shit, no! You offering to rip him another bum hole or whatever isn’t going to help anybody!”

“Christ in a coffee shop, woman! Do you _want_ my help, or not?”

Nicola swallowed hard. “Yes,” she said quietly.

He held out one long, graceful hand. Dumb, she planted her mobile into it. “It’s under Fucking Expensive,” she muttered.

“Move it to Waste of fuckin’ Money,” he advised, rapidly tapping the relevant number into his desk phone and flicking the device onto loudspeaker. “Yes, good morning, my name’s Malcolm Tucker. Can I speak to Mister Morris, please? On behalf of Nicola Murray, yeah.”

His whole demeanour changed. Used to bristling anger and that rasp of raw contempt in his tone, she was shaken by how mellifluous, how soothing that rich Scots burr could sound. When he thanked the school receptionist on the other end of the line, she could almost feel the woman’s flutter.

“I wasn’t expecting a call from anyone but Ella’s mother, Mister Tucker.” Richard Morris, Headmaster, was less easily charmed, she gathered. Small wonder, with a miscreant pupil on one side and the most notorious spin doctor in politics on the other! “Her daughter’s misdemeanours are hardly a matter for Whitehall debate.”

“Nicola’s very upset, Mister Morris.”

“As any parent would be to discover their daughter has been terrorising her classmates. Ella seems to think that having a parent in Cabinet enables her to behave like a trainee Bin Laden and I’m sorry to disillusion her, but not at my school!”

“I’m very glad to hear it; your reputation for discipline was one of the reasons the Murrays chose your school in the first place.” When she would have protested he cut her off with a sharp slash of the hand and Nicola subsided into her seat, torn between relief she wasn’t doing the talking and yawning terror at the knowledge she couldn’t control the monster she had unleashed. 

There again she couldn’t control her younger daughter. _Same difference!_

“The problem seems to be, Mister Tucker, that nobody has checked Ella’s sense of her own importance.”

“Obviously nobody’s bothered to explain the limit of her mother’s, either. I know she’s a Cabinet Minister, but that’s like being a porter in The Dorchester, you know? She might be seen goin' in through the big doors but she’s not exactly runnin’ the hotel.”

Down the line came a definite snort of smothered laughter. “With your permission, sir, I’ll borrow that analogy when I call Ella back in.”

“I won’t charge,” Malcolm agreed expansively, shooting Nicola a look that positively dared her to interrupt. “And if you want to tell that ha’penny Grand Duchess the revolution’s coming as well, feel free. Nicola’s seriously considering her position. Cabinet ministers are replaceable and backbenchers – well, they’re cockroaches, aren’t they? Cannon fodder, especially when they’ve just been humiliated by their kids in the press….”

“Ahem! We were rather hoping to keep this _away_ from the papers.” For the first time she heard the man’s confidence waver, and a glimmer of the Malcolm she knew – teeth bared in a feral smile – reappeared. “We pride ourselves on providing a secure, stable and _private_ environment for our students….”

“I don’t think that’s likely to happen, Mister Morris, I’m sorry.” Smooth and oh-so-sincere Malcolm leaned back in his seat, absently twirling a pen between his fingers. “I mean obviously _we_ wouldn’t want attention drawing to it but how many pupils do you have? One girl tells her parents; somebody tweets. Once it’s out there, this stuff can’t be pulled back in.”

“Not even by you?”

“Not since I broke my old magic wand over a junior minister’s head last year; in these tough economic times we couldn’t afford a replacement.” Anyone wandering past would assume they were catching a conversation between old friends, relaxed and confiding. “I mean obviously nobody wants the hack pack outside your school gates tomorrow…”

“No. No, nobody wants that.” Morris cleared his throat loudly. Twice.

Malcolm’s grin widened. “Perhaps – well, maybe if Mrs Murray could talk to Ella; make her understand the consequences of her behaviour,” Morris suggested, just a little bit too hopeful. “She’s only twelve after all, and coming into a new school halfway through the year, trying to find a position in a peer group that’s already quite _established_ …”

“Difficult for any child,” Malcolm agreed solemnly. “The decision to exclude….”

“No final decision has been made yet I assure you, Mister Tucker; we wouldn’t do that without a _thorough_ review of _all_ the circumstances. Ella’s been separated from the class while we decide on the appropriate punishment, but actually removing a child from education altogether is far too drastic a step for this school to take lightly.”

“That’s very wise. Nicola, d’ you think you’re ready to talk to Ella? Maybe if she realises you could lose your job because of her…”

“Could I?” she mouthed, as if she didn’t know. Down the line the squeak of a chair was clearly audible. 

“I’ll call Ella in, if her mother….”

“Lay it on with a fucking trowel,” Malcolm instructed in a whisper. “Your job, her reputation, the family name, the lot, yeah?”

“Malcolm, she’s twelve! I don’t want her scarred for life!”

“But you want to keep your job and her school place, Mrs fuckin’ Doubtfire,” he muttered, deftly flipping the handsfree switch. “He doesn’t want the bad PR any more than you do, so just do it, OK?”

She expected him to activate the loudspeaker again. Instead, he offered her the handset, his expression neutral as long as she didn’t look too closely into those oh-so-knowing grey eyes. “Nothing to do with me,” he mouthed, settling back with arms folded across his chest and one eyebrow arched. Nicola’s throat tightened so abruptly she couldn’t speak.

“Mum? Mum, tell them they can’t kick me out!”

That did it. The petulance. The self-righteousness. The sheer, unselfconscious arrogance. “You’re going to apologise to Mister Morris and you’re going to grovel to your class, Ella Marie Murray, do you understand that? And then you’re going to explain to everybody why you may, very possibly, have cost your mother her job!”

“But – but- but…”

On and on she went, aware of the walls closing in around her and the tightness of two steel bands across her chest; of the penetrating eyes, cool and clear, fixed on her mouth while it flapped. Laying it on thick wasn’t a problem now. Stopping: that was the difficult thing.

Maybe this was what it felt like to be Malcolm Tucker.

Nicola liked it.

“I’m sorry, Mum; I didn’t mean to cause you trouble.” Like a junior minister caught fiddling her expenses Ella crumbled, all her childish bravado dissolved. “I won’t take anybody’s dinner money again, I swear! Please, Mister Morris, don’t expel me it’ll all come back on my mum and I don’t want to hurt her!”

“Put Mister Morris on to me now, darling, and don’t cry. We’re going to deal with this like grown-ups, OK? You’re going to stop scaring the other girls, and I’m at Number Ten now with the P.M’s people. We’re going to sort this out, all right?”

As soon as the man came back onto the line all the fire drained from her. “Mister Morris, whatever decision you make my husband and I will support,” she said, too tired to care anymore what happened to her. Across the desk, Malcolm gave her an approving nod.

The teacher’s voice quacked industriously. Nicola’s shoulders sagged. Her bottom lip quivered.

“Thank you,” she breathed, tears spilling over and glistening on her eyelashes. “I – yes, James and I will come in on Friday, whatever time’s convenient for you, but – _thank you!_ ”

Her hands were shaking too badly to replace the receiver; Malcolm caught it as it dropped from her flaccid fingers, watching her with unnerving intensity while she sniffled into his ruined hanky. “Thanks, Malcolm,” she managed, forcing herself to meet his piercing grey gaze. “It’s the press – he doesn’t want them getting near, and he thinks – well, thanks.”

“Just don’t let this happen again, OK?” When he rubbed a hand across his face, pausing to pinch the high bridge of his nose, she saw it all laid bare. 

Strain. Exhaustion.

The price, she thought, of power.

For a split second it caused a twang of compassion in her chest. “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I’m supposed to be running a government department with a budget of millions yet I come running to you to sort out my own fucking family! I – I won’t have to resign, will I?”

“Not over this, anyway.” Standing felt like an effort and he didn’t much care if she realised it. “Between your fuckin’ daughter and Fatty’s fucking frump…. Jesus, what a week! If you could just arrange for one of those nice, straightforward DoSAC policy cock-ups for the press to focus on instead of your fucking private lives I’d really be very fucking grateful!”

“I’ll remind you of that sometime.” His hankie, sopping wet and crumpled, hung limply in her hand. “Er – I’ll get this washed and back to you, OK?”

“Oh, give it here, you daft bint I can manage m’ own fuckin’ laundry.” Another lightning change; now he was amused, almost cordial. To her great alarm Nicola was swamped by the irrational urge to hug him.

She didn’t; self-preservation being the default instinct in any politician. Covering her confusion with inane babble she backed toward the door, thanks, weak apologies and giggles bubbling unhindered between her puckered lips. 

She distinctly heard his sigh of “Fuckin’ mental!” as she closed the door.

“Your coat, Minister.”

“Oh! Thank you, Sam.” She fumbled the garment from his P.A’s grip, feeling as she always did, a little intimidated by the younger woman’s aura of unruffled competence. “I, ah, I hope I haven’t made his day too much worse, you know, trailing all my problems to his door again.”

“It goes with the territory, Minister; and I dare say it’s not been your best morning either.” Warm brown eyes beneath well-marked brows slid to her right, toward her employer’s firmly closed door. “Is he…”

“If you were about to make a cup of tea…” Nicola suggested, keeping her voice down just in case he had his ear to the keyhole. Sam nodded. She might even have bitten her lip.

“I think I was just about to do that, Minister, yes,” she agreed cheerfully. “The car’s just pulled up for you, by the way.”

Before Nicola could respond, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be a short Malcolm/Sam epilogue to follow. Thanks again for reading!


	3. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The job does take its toll. There's one person who knows that better than any other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did promise some Malcolm/Sam eventually! Very short but (hopefully!) sweet.

“Malc? You OK?”

With her at least, there was no pretence. The most fearsome figure in British politics slumped in his chair, head back and tired eyes half closed. “I’ve had worse days darlin’, don’t you worry about me. The one when Remtard praised Hitler for _getting things done_ five minutes after Tom called a bereaved mother a nutter during PMQ’s: that was worse than today. Not by much, mind.”

Sam insinuated herself into his lap, linking her hands loosely at his nape. “Exaggerating, much?” she teased gently, resting her forehead against his. The thin form beneath her rippled with silent laughter.

“Slightly. Nicola OK?”

“Better for seeing you, and that’s not something I say about a minister often.” There wasn’t much she could do in the office but sometimes her mere presence, the warmth of her in his arms, seemed to soothe him. “You’ve sorted the little horror, I suppose?”

“That posh headmaster’s easier than Fatty’s girlfriend; has anyone found her white stick yet, by the way?” The throbbing in his temples receded slightly. Malcolm gave her a light squeeze, urging her back to her feet with obvious regret. “Is that tea or coffee?”

“Hot chocolate. You’ve had quite enough caffeine for one morning. Oh, and there’s a new packet of Hobnobs in your bottom drawer.” He rolled his eyes but she just laughed, and when she did that, he couldn't object. “Don’t forget, darling, I happen to know you didn’t bother with breakfast this morning. I’m sure Mrs Murray’s extremely grateful for your help; so’s Fatty, by the way. The Creep forwarded me his departmental email, if you want a good laugh?”

He nodded, the momentary lapse already behind him. “Give me ten minutes; I’d better update the boss. And Sam?”

She paused with one hand on the door handle, her head tilted, that sweet, just-about-professional smile lingering on her full pink lips. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Deliberately she leaned back against the door, holding her tongue until she heard the satisfying snap of the catch. “Somebody has to nursemaid the nursemaid, don’t they? I’ll bring you that press digest in ten if that’s OK.”

She waited fifteen. On a bad day, even she had to be careful.

The benefit of her intimate knowledge, Sam considered, was that she alone knew which the really bad days were.


End file.
